


A Bath

by auselysium



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Gap Filler, M/M, s2 ep9, scene continuation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 03:49:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11245704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auselysium/pseuds/auselysium
Summary: A gap filler for the scene right after Philippe's "I love you" when the Chevalier asks to draw him a bath.





	A Bath

**Author's Note:**

> So here it is. First fic in a new fandom. Please be kind as I find my 17th century fic!
> 
> Thanks in advance for reading! Comments are love.

The mid-morning air of the Monsieurs’ quarters is fragrant, laden with the heavy warmth of a recently drawn bath.  
  
The Chevalier had watched the scurrying comings and goings of the palace staff with near motionless exhaustion as his bath had been prepared. His eyes vacant in his still bloodied face. Philippe had puttered, adjusting the things on his desk, leaving instructions for fresh clothes to be brought from the Chevalier’s rooms with the guards, quite unsure how to deal with the emptiness in his lovers eyes.  
  
“Leave us,” Philippe orders once the bath is ready.  
  
His voice is round and deep in the small space of his room, a proper command, and the two girls make their quick curtsy, slipping from the room as if they had never been there.  
  
“May I?” He asks, once they are alone. The Chevalier's eyelids flutter at the sound as he becomes aware of the world again. His gaze lands on Philippe’s presented hand. It is an offer of help, one that this time the Chevalier does not refuse.  
  
He allows Philippe to help him to his feet. Allows him to remove his blood-stained shirt. He stands idly as Philippe undoes the lacing on his trousers and slides them to the floor. Philippe has undressed him in this way hundreds of times so the brush of his royal skin against his is not unfamiliar. It simply lacks any of the familiar heat, replaced instead by this gentle hesitance.  
  
_When did ‘we’ become such a delicate thing?_ he wonders briefly, as he looks down his now naked body, noting the bruises that have formed across his ribs and hips. _When did I?_  
  
The answer in not hard to find. Four years apart followed too quickly by a new woman calling Philippe 'husband'. A woman who is, begrudgingly, not without her quirky, continental charms, and who sees the endless capability of the Duke D’Orleans. Much as he does himself.  
  
But her place at Philippe’s side has left within him this lingering, aching bleakness. A cavity hollowed out in his chest filled with unrelenting, wretched feelings and thoughts. It poisons his mind, providing an endless litany of doubts and self-loathing as watches Philippe become this formidable man of France. A man that he fears he has no right to keep.  
  
But now, with a hand to his elbow, Philippe helps the Chevalier limp over to the tub. Philippe holds him steady as he steps over the high edge, keeping a hand to his back as he lowers himself carefully down. The perfumed and emollient rich water stings his still open wounds and he winces. But the hiss of pain quickly morphs to a sigh as the heat soaks into his aching limbs.  
  
Philippe pulls a small cup across the surface of the water, filling it and then pouring it carefully over the Chevalier’s hair. He repeats the act until every last strand of it is rinsed through. Then, he finds a wide toothed comb from his own toilette and runs it through his blond curls.  
  
It is the work of a servant or at best a valet. But certainly not a prince. So this gentle tending to feels intensely intimate.  
  
The Chevalier cannot remember the last time he has felt this alone with Philippe. Cannot remember when they had both been so fully present. Without Philippe’s mind full of thoughts of his brother or his recently impregnated wife. A time when his own heart had not been seized with jealousy or desolation.  
  
But he feels it now: just the two of them. _We._  
  
The safety of their solitude propels him into action. He cups some water in his palms, splashing it across his face. The water that falls back to the tub is tinged pink with blood.  
  
“Going after him unarmed was foolish,” Philippe says, fingers smoothing the Chevalier’s hair across the his back in gentle waves.  
  
“I _was_ armed…” he bites, then adds, “Only, not with my full fighting capabilities.”  
  
“Drunk, then,” Philippe states. His exasperated _Again_ , goes un-uttered but the Chevalier hears it all the same.  
  
“There were five of them, if not more.” He says, as if that had been the real reason he’d been a useless combatant.  
  
Philippe crouches by the side of the bath, eyeing the lacerations on his lovers face with concern. The cut on his cheekbone is especially deep. He brushes his thumb just below it, noting how it is mirrors the shape of a boot toe.  
  
“I should call for a doctor.”  
  
“I’m fine.” The Chevalier brushes away Philippe’s concern with his hand.  
  
“No you’re not fine.”  
  
“Later then.”  
  
“But later it may have started to…”  
  
“Please, Philippe.” The Chevalier lifts his eyes. “Not now.”  
  
Philippe hears the plea in his voice, sees it in the look he gives him. He nods, understanding what the Chevalier is so desperate to extend.  
  
Unfortunately, their privacy is interrupted anyway as a servant returns with wine and the fresh set of clothes Philippe had called for. He fills a goblet of wine for himself, then offers one to the Chevalier.  
  
“What you said, before...regarding your feelings for me.” The Chevalier’s voice is halting, seeming to come from nowhere and Philippe releases his grasp on the lip of the wine glass slowly. “Hearing those words did more good for me than you shall ever know.”  
  
The Chevalier looks up at him with cautious eyes, timid as he expresses something that obviously costs him a great deal. A surge of affection, of patience, runs through Philippe. He pulls a chair next to the bath, leaning an elbow against the curved edge and crossing his legs at the knee.  
  
“They were easily said,” Philippe offers softly, eyes cast to the red liquid in his glass. “As the truth so often is.”  
  
“You must know those same feelings are returned in with equal ardor.”  
  
“I gathered,” Philippe says, taking a sip. “Afterall, I have a shattered mirror to prove it.”  
  
Both sets of eyes flit to the now empty place on the wall and they share mild smiles. It had been neither man’s finest hour, full of ego and dramatics.  Pretty typical for them, really.  
  
“Why do we not speak of it, then?” The Chevalier asks, aware of the subtle shift in mood. The progression from anger, to worry, to comfort, to honesty, to ease that has passed between them over the course of the short morning. “Do our noble births place us above such simple expressions of love?”  
  
A look of surprise flits across the prince’s face. “I did not realize creatures of the moment, such as yourself, living for the now, needed such overt statements of commitment.”  
  
The Chevalier gives him a long, displeased look up through his eyelashes as his own words from the night of their secret fete are so nonchalantly tossed back at him. Philippe smiles against his wine glass, his point made.  
  
“I know my place at the court,” the Chevalier says. “And I know how I am perceived. I know where I stand in the King’s graces, which is nowhere at all. But as of late, I did question that even you…”  
  
Philippe waits, balancing his wine glass on his knee. His own heart beats faster as it anticipates what is to come.

“I know you have a bound duty to keep your wife contented,” the Chevalier continues with renewed purpose. “And I know we both have our...dalliances.” The rings on his fingers glitter as his fingers flutter through the air. “But this…” He turns in the water leaning towards Philippe. His index finger lands on Philippe’s chest, wetting the fabric just above his heart. “This, I shall not share. I cannot bare it.”  
  
“You don’t.” Philippe covers the Chevalier’s wet hand with his, pressing their palms firmly against his chest. He lets them both feel several beats of his heart before speaking. “And you will not.”  
  
“Then what of all this with Thomas?”  
  
Philippe rolls his eyes with a groan, pushing away the Chevalier’s hand even as he tries to hold on tighter.  
  
“I told you, you must trust me.”  
  
“I want to, my darling, but you have to give me something. My imagination is far too clever to be left with only speculation.”

“It is a charade,” Philippe snaps, rising. He paces around to the end of the tub, his hands falling to a frustrated perch on his hips. “A pantomime at the king’s behest, nothing more.”

“To what purpose?” He asks, confused.  
  
“There are certain matters that do not concern you. To which you need not be privy.”  
  
“And now you sound just like him...” he positively pouts.  
  
“And is that such a bad thing?” Philippe shouts, leaning forward to rest both hands on the edge of the tub. “I know you think my brother ruthless, but I do actually agree with his actions from time to time. This being one of them.”  
  
“Of course you do. It means you get to have a state sanctioned affair with the playwright!” He slaps the surface of the tub with his hand, sending a splash in Philippe’s direction, before sloshing down into the water in a great huff.  Philippe steps back, unable to avoid getting wet.  He stares, dumbfounded at the spreading dampness on his coat and shoes.  
  
This jealous outburst should infuriate Philippe, especially in the wake of the honesty they have just shared. It is just such outrageous behavior that is all so many, including the King, see from the Chevalier, which leaves them to presume him a shallow man of trifling, fickle feeling. But Philippe knows better. Knows the outward charm is just a gateway to his inner complexity.  
  
So a smile widens across his lips Philippe’s lips instead of ire. This is the man, after all - sopping wet and covered in well-intended cuts - that he love above all others. The Chevalier de Lorraine. Capricious, hotheaded, jovial, beautiful. His very own Philippe.  
  
“Finish here,” he says and the Chevalier’s head snaps in his direction, unprepared for the sweetness of the prince’s tone. “Then come to bed.”   He shrugs off his vest and begins undoing the knot at his throat.  
  
“Bed? At this hour? Aren’t you needed in the salons for another game of cards?”  
  
Philippe laughs softly through his nose. Then he bends and places a kiss, lingering and kind, on the Chevalier’s temple.  
  
“I shall have to make my excuses. I have far more important matters to attend to today.”  
  
He turns to allow the Chevalier to finish his bath in peace, but not before he catches a small look of hope enliven his eyes.


End file.
